Page 51 of The Wrong Man

A few days ago, that eagerness would have just confused me. Now I see it for what it is. A weakness. A crack in his armor.

A way out.

“That would be wonderful,” I say. And then, before I can talk myself out of it, I reach out and touch his arm. Just briefly. Just a brush of my fingers against his sleeve.

He goes completely still.

I can feel the muscle tense beneath the fabric. Feel the way his whole body seems to hold its breath at this tiny, insignificant contact.

I’ve never voluntarily touched him before. Not once. Every physical interaction between us has been him touching me. Him carrying me, washing my hair, feeding me soup, checking my temperature. I have always been the passive recipient.

This is something new. Something that shifts the balance between us, even if only slightly.

I pull my hand back and watch his reaction from beneath my lashes. He’s staring at the spot on his arm where my fingers were.

Holy Mary, have I fucked up already? Was that too obvious? Too blatant and crude? My heart is hammering. Oh heaven help me, I should have known I’d be no good at this.

But wait. He doesn’t look angry. Or outraged at my clumsy attempt at… what would I even call it? Flirting?

Whatever I was trying to do with my touch, he looks like he’s trying to memorize the sensation. Like I’ve given him something infinitely precious instead of a mere fleeting brush of contact.

Sweet Jesus. He’s touch-starved too. Not just kindness-starved but literally starved for human contact.

The guilt surges up again, sharp and nauseating. I’m going to use his loneliness against him. I’m going to exploit his desperate need for connection. I’m going to make him care about me and then I’m going to leave.

It’s monstrous. It’s exactly the kind of thing Declan would do.

But Declan isn’t the one trapped in a murderer’s flat with no way out. Declan isn’t the one who watched a man die and nearly froze to death, and woke up naked in a stranger’s bed. Declan gets to lounge on a beach somewhere while I pay the price for his crimes.

I don’t owe anyone my integrity. Not anymore. Not after everything that’s been taken from me.

“Should we see the living room?” I ask brightly, as if my entire worldview hasn’t just shifted on its axis.

Dante nods and leads me down the hall. I follow, careful to keep my expression neutral, curious, innocent.

The living room is exactly as depressing as I remember from my secret exploration. That horrible orange and brown sofa. The stained coffee table. The single lamp casting its sickly yellow light.

“It’s very...” I search for a word that isn’t insulting. “Minimalist.”

Dante huffs out something that might be a laugh. “It’s a dump. You can say it.”

“It’s a bit sparse,” I admit. “Have you always lived here?”

“For about ten years. I inherited the building from someone who owed me a favor.” He looks around the room with fresh eyes, like he’s seeing it through mine. “I never bothered to make it comfortable. There didn’t seem to be any point.”

Because he’s alone. Because no one ever visits. Because he’s built his entire life around isolation and violence and never thought he might want something different.

The old Dylan would have felt sorry for him. Would have seen the loneliness underneath the monster and wanted to fix it.

The new Dylan sees an opportunity.

“It has potential,” I say.

Dante looks at me like I’ve said something profound. Like I’ve offered him hope instead of a strategic lie.

“You think so?”

“With some work,” I say. “Some paint. Some furniture that wasn’t manufactured before my parents were born. Maybe some pictures on the walls.” I gesture vaguely at the blank expanse of beige. “It could be nice. Homey, even.”